Night Moves

Rating: R
Category: AU
Pairing(s): Nathan/Charles, Toki/Skwisgaar, Pickles/OC
Warnings: Angst
Summary: Pickles has an affair that might destroy him.
Notes: My buddy Rei and I, as I have mentioned, play in an rpg. Mostly we just dork around – a little angst, a little goofiness, a little “we really should get Knubbler pregnant with Murderface’s baby.” But recently we hit upon a plot that really has me going; one of those plots you kinda accidentally trip over when you’re not looking for it. So… well… had to do something with it. This fic is set in our rp universe. Many thanks to Rei for loaning me Lyall.

Pickles lay on his back on the bed and smoked, listening to the rain fall outside the window of his cheap motel room with the décor that hadn’t been updated since 1959. He was waiting to hear a knock at the door; one that would stop the sickness in his stomach, remove the iron fist crushing his heart. He was waiting for his reason to keep going. He glanced at the clock beside the bed. It was 10:45 pm; another hour and fifteen minutes to go. Then he would have his answer.

His Aunt Mabel owned the motel, and the tiny café beside it. She was a nice lady. He was sorry he hadn’t spent more time getting to know her, but Nebraska wasn’t a place he went to often. It was Nathan’s fault that he was here now, of course. Actually, no, it wasn’t, it was his own. But he could blame Nathan. It was easier that way.

Nathan’s relationship with Charles had hit a speed bump, and he’d taken off. He’d been gone for a week, and Charles had been a disaster. Consequently so was the band. On the surface it might not look like much bothered Dethklok, but when something was wrong with one member, they all reacted. Dr. Twinkletits might have been a lunatic and a killer, but he did know his psychology, and his remark about how they were a family was true. Probably one of the most dysfunctional families in existence, but when one of them hurt, they all hurt. And watching Charles waste away as he wondered where Nathan had gone was gut-wrenching.

Then finally Nathan called, from Nebraska, of all places. He’d bought a lake, and wanted Charles to come down and see it, and to say he was sorry for worrying him. Nathan and Charles were about as well-matched as a fish and a weasel, but dammit they worked. They fit like a glove, and even if their relationship didn’t make a damned bit of sense to anyone other than themselves, there was a feeling of permanence about it the other members of Dethklok found comforting. Nathan and Charles would be happily mismatched for the rest of their lives.

Pickles wasn’t sure what made him decide to follow Charles down to the little pinhole town. He couldn’t even say he wanted to see his aunt because he hadn’t known she was there until he walked smack into her at the café. They had barely recognized each other; it took a few moments of staring at one another, wondering where they had met before. Then Mabel’s face lit up with joy.

“Beauford!”

Pickles nearly ripped his dreds out. He clenched his fists and howled in that nasal near-yodel; “I TOLD YOU NEVER TO CALL ME THAT!”

“I’m not calling a grown man ‘Pickles’. Come say hello to your uncle.”

So he went to say hello to his uncle and fill in the only two relatives he could stand on what he had been doing with his life, leaving out the more colourful bits, of course. When asked what he was doing there, he said he was just taking a break, looking around, clearing his head. It was true enough. He didn’t mention that he had wanted to be someplace that wasn’t Mordhaus; someplace other than where his last relationships had… ended.

Ended. Yeah that was one word for it. When Snakes ‘n’ Barrels had reunited, he had started to get close to Tony once more. Their relationship had ended rather spectacularly when the band broke up, but being with him again had reminded Pickles of the good times. Sure they were both a little fatter and balder, but…they had loved each other, and being back on the road reminded him of that. Slowly, cautiously, they began to rebuild their past love affair, and things had been good…

Right up until the moment the drugs the dealer had sold them kicked in and Tony’s brain melted. Tony was still alive, and Pickles was paying to make sure Tony and his other two former band mates were well cared for, but… well… Pickles didn’t have any illusions about Tony ever walking out of that asylum. Like Syd Barrett, Tony was another crazy diamond that would forever shine in legend, but that was damned cold comfort to the people who knew him.

Pickles had been morbidly depressed after that, much as he tried to hide it. He’d remained despondent until one of the Dethklok roadies couldn’t stand watching Pickles die by degrees anymore and began breaking protocol to come talk to him. Soon number 217 had been discreetly transferred to a position that made it a little more appropriate for him to spend time with one of the band. Offdensen had been royally pissed about the infraction, and the only thing that kept 217, aka Daniel, from disciplinary action was the positive effect he was having on Pickles. And his effect certainly was positive… until he was murdered.

More depression, more drug use, more booze. The fact that they caught the guy responsible hardly made things better. Pickles had gone from happily high to committing suicide on the layaway plan. The other four members of Dethklok had begun having serious conversations about whether to replace Pickles after he died, or to just retire the band. And then along came Wolf; a precious little gem of a heavy metal rocker with a heavy accent who could almost make himself understood in English. Pickles had been in lust with him from the moment he saw him, but something about the way Skwisgaar hated Wolf on sight made Pickles wary. Skwisgaar was a princess, and certainly arrogant, but he rarely reacted with open hostility towards people. He didn’t like Wolf, and when questioned, Skwisgaar would just shrug and shake his head.

“Don’ts know. I just don’t likes dat guy.”

Then one night Pickles caught Wolf downloading Skwisgaar’s experimental tracks. It seemed Skwisgaar’s intuition had been right.

More booze, more pills, more slow deterioration. Toki couldn’t eat anymore; the tension in the house was causing him to throw up almost everything he swallowed. Murderface was more solitary and irritable than usual, and Skwisgaar was just quietly depressed, harbouring a small gremlin of guilt over being right about Wolf. Pickles was sure he was what Charles and Nathan had fought about the night Nathan took off. Then when Nathan finally called and Charles went to be with him, Pickles decided maybe he needed a road trip, too. First he had to reassure Toki that he would be back. Poor little Toki. He’d lost twenty pounds and was developing a sleep disorder because of how messed up Pickles was. He wasn’t just the band brat; he was Dethklok’s miner’s canary. When the band was well, Toki was well. When shit came up, so did Toki’s lunch.

“I’m just taking a vacation. I’ll go look at Nathan’s lake, tell him he’s an asshole, piss in it, and… I’ll be fine. Then I’ll invite you down for a swim.”

Toki narrowed his eyes. “I nots swimming in lakes you pee-peed in.”

“Well then I won’t tell you I did it.”

“That’s nots making t’ings betters.”

Pickles just smiled, and gave the long brown hair a friendly tug. “I’ll be fine. I just want to go someplace and relax a bit, then we can get on with our lives, okay?”

“Okies.”

So Pickles got on his motorcycle and followed Charles down to Nebraska. He hadn’t expected Nathan to be pleased to see him, but Nathan was just so damned glad Pickles was out of his room and doing anything other than pilling and drinking himself into the grave that he pounced on him with un-Nathan like enthusiasm.

“Pickles!”

“Dood! Don’t hurt me!”

Nathan ran him over like a semi truck, hugging him painfully tight. “I was scared you were dead.”

“Gahd, no, but your breath might do it.”

“That’s it, now you die.”

And that was when love came around the corner and hit Pickles between the eyes like a sledgehammer; right when he was in a headlock getting a noogie, making a futile and desperate attempt to squiggle out of Nathan’s grasp. He was a short, skinny little nerd with glasses, a mop of fine sandy hair and wearing a London Fog coat in the dead of summer. He was walking with a couple of other high school losers, all of them fifteen minutes past being legal. Small town kids with small town jobs, trying to save bucks enough to flee to the city and probably end up turning tricks for crack when the money ran out. It was a situation Pickles remembered far too well.

The kids stopped and looked at what appeared to be Nathan Explosion giving a noogie to Pickles the Drummer, while Charles Offdensen stood by. Deciding that they could not possibly be seeing what they thought they were seeing, the boys kept going. Nathan and Pickles exchanged glances, then Nathan resumed the noogie. Charles decided at that point to go into the café, order a cup of coffee and sip it slowly as he stared out the window and wondered where his life had gone wrong.

“Seriously though,” said Nathan, once they were alone and there was no one to witness the un-metal sharing of concern and feelings. “How are you?”

Pickles shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just… all been a lot to deal with.”

Nathan nodded. “Well… you know we’re here for you. In as much as we’re here for anyone.”

Pickles smiled. “Yeah, I know.”

“C’mon. Let’s go into the café. We haven’t embarrassed Charles all day. He’ll get complacent if we don’t.”

“Dood, what does he see in you?”

Nathan grinned broadly, and Pickles made a face.

“Too much information, man, gahd.”

“You asked.” Nathan looked terribly pleased with himself. “I make him scream like a virgin on a sacrificial alter.”

“M-hm. Yeah. Dood, you sure it’s your doodle that makes him scream, and not the way you’re crushing his bits when you get on him?”

“Jack off.”

They went into the café, and Pickles noticed the kid in the London Fog coat sitting at the counter, morosely nibbling some fries, a cold cherry Coke set before him on the counter. As Nathan went to sit with Charles, Pickles went over to the kid. He had no idea why his feet took him there. He just… went. Nathan and Charles exchanged glances, then Nathan let his head fall to the table while Charles sighed and began looking up age of consent laws. Eventually Nathan looked up, peering at Charles from beneath his hair.

“What’s the verdict?”

“He’s legal,” Charles finally said. “But I have to state for the record that I do not like this and I don’t approve.”

Nathan was in complete agreement, but had no idea what to do. “It will be okay,” he said, trying to convince himself.

“You hope.”

Charles turned in his seat to watch Pickles talk to the kid at the counter, along with Nathan. It was just something that needed to be witnessed, like a collision between a mountain goat and a concrete wall; they just had to see who would crack first. The barely-legal bait was named Lyall, and once he got past the OMFG-you’re-Pickles stage, they began talking. Mabel, along with Nathan and Charles, wasn’t impressed. At one point she came from around the counter and grabbed a handful of dreds.

“Beauford, I’d like a word with you.”

“I told you never to call me that,” said Pickles, but allowed his aunt to drag him away while Nathan and Charles looked at each other and mouthed; “Beauford?!”

“Brutal,” said Nathan.

After a little while Mabel came out and began tidying up, shaking her head. Pickles returned to his place at the counter and resumed his conversation with Lyall. Nathan and Charles ordered lunch so they would have an excuse to watch the pending disaster.

They talked about nothing, really, just stuff. Funny stuff, dumb stuff, nothing stuff. Eventually they got on the topic of hunting, and Pickles mentioned it had been a while since he had done any. Then a single watt bulb came on over his head.

“Maybe you uh… could show me where to bag some rabbit,” said Pickles.

“Or chicken,” muttered Mabel.

Nathan grabbed a napkin and wrote on it in capital letters, then showed it to Charles. It read; WORST PICK-UP LINE EVARRRRR!

Charles almost spat coffee across the table, putting one hand over his mouth in an attempt to keep his coffee contained, groping for a napkin with the other.

“Sure,” said Lyall. “I can do that.”

Charles forced his coffee down and cleaned himself up. “I don’t know what’s worse, frankly. The pick-up line, or the fact that it worked.”

Nathan and Charles snorted and snickered. Pickles glanced over at the pair, once more amazed at the way Nathan could break Charles up, get past his controlled outer shell and make him laugh. Pickles narrowed his eyes, then looked at Lyall.

“You’ll have to forgive Nathan. He hasn’t been right since this one time we got stuck in a truck stop in Alabama, and he…”

Nathan’s head shot up, eyes wide in horror. “You say one more word and I’ll tell the oyster story.”

Pickles backed down. “Dood, whoa, no hitting below the belt.”

Lyall finished his lunch, and he and Pickles left. Charles sighed and shook his head, and then took his laptop computer out of his briefcase. He had things to look up regarding this situation, and how badly it could affect the band and their reputation. Nathan just looked worried.

“It’ll be okay,” he said.

“We hope,” said Charles.

***---***

It was a futile hope.

Pickles fell fast and he fell hard, and no one was more keenly aware of what a fool he was making of himself than he. Lyall was the bastard son of the local nut case; badly abused at home and tortured in school, where rumours about his sexual orientation were destroying any chance he had at graduating. He had a protective best friend named Erick who didn’t like having a slightly-used drug-sniffing, booze-sucking balding rock star for competition, and it just made the whole situation all the worse, like a sick black comedy. Nathan and the guys were telling Pickles to let the situation go, Lyall’s friend was telling him the same thing, and if the mess ever became public the humiliation would have been insurmountable, but Pickles didn’t care. He didn’t know if he loved Lyall, but he desperately needed him, the same way Lyall needed Pickles. It was an unhealthy, destructive pairing, destined to end in flames, but neither could seem to stop the dance. Lyall needed what Pickles could give him; safety, comfort, and a chance to be something more than another drop-out without a future. Pickles just needed to be needed, and he refused to hear the voices of reason that his band mates offered.

He didn’t appreciate their attempts to help; in fact he couldn’t help but be embittered by it. They had no idea what it felt like to lose as much as he had in so short a time. They weren’t spending their nights alone thinking about lovers dead or destroyed or just plain dishonourable. No, Nathan was curling up with Charles, Toki had Skwisgaar, and even Murderface was seeing someone, though they had no idea who and he was being as secretive as fox on a midnight run to a chicken coop about it. They all had someone, and all Pickles had was his desperation.

The band once more began discussing what to do once he was dead. After all, there was nothing as fickle as a teenager, and they all recognized how very close to the edge Pickles was. Lyall too, despite his youth and naïvety, began sensing he was in over his head, but by now it was too late for either of them. They couldn’t stop if they tried. The train wreck was approaching fast.

Finally Charles took the reins and brought Pickles back to sharp reality. Contracts had to be honoured, deadlines had to be met, and tour schedules were in place. Pickles was out of time. He could no longer linger in this tiny little pinhole town, desperately waiting for Lyall to make up his mind whether he should stay and continue to try and care for his emotionally disturbed mother, hoping that his best friend Erick got off his ass and finally admitted his feelings for him, or leave with the rock star and face life in a fishbowl where he was the punchline to a Leno joke.

At six that evening, Lyall had come to Pickles’ room to talk, the expression in his eyes better suited to an eighty year old. His shoulders were already bent from the strain of living, even at his young age. He was sitting on the bed while Pickles sat in a chair, facing him, watching him. They were facing the moment of impact that they had been dreading, when the whole mess finally ended, destroying one and crippling the other.

“Come with me,” Pickles said.

“I don’t know,” said Lyall. “It just looks so bad.”

“Who gives a crap how it looks?” said Pickles.

“I do!” said Lyall. “You think I don’t know how this looks? You think I don’t know what people will think about us? Big rock star and his stupid little gold digger white trash toyboy?”

“How about innocent little small-town boy and the predatory mega-star preying on him?” said Pickles. “The shit cuts both ways. But I’ll protect you.”

“You can’t protect me,” said Lyall. “They’ll eat us both alive.”

There was a long silence. Outside the rain fell on the gravel parking lot as the sky grew dark, and both sensed the end was near. Somewhere in the distance they could hear Bob Seger singing.

We weren’t in love, oh no, far from it
We weren’t searchin’ for some pie in the sky summit
We were just young and restless and bored
Livin’ by the sword
And we’d steal away every chance we could…

“Do you love me?” asked Lyall.

Pickles closed his eyes, wincing. He honestly didn’t know the answer to that. He knew what he felt, but he wasn’t sure it added up to love. Needy desperation and fear was more like it, but if Lyall refused him, Pickles had no doubt it would destroy him. Funny how he was supposed to be the one in control; he had age, wealth, and wisdom allegedly, though he hadn’t made a wise decision since he met Lyall. That part of his brain, underused as it was, had simply packed its bags and moved out.

Without meaning to, or even realizing he was about to do so, Pickles dropped to his knees, ignoring the pain as he hit the thinly-padded floor, almost as if he had been dealt a blow. Lyall could not look at him as outside the night grew heavy, and the weather began to storm.

And oh the wonder
We felt the lightning
And we waited on the thunder
Waited on the thunder

“Come with me,” said Pickles.

“But do you love me?”

Pickles gazed down at the floor, still on his knees. “I know if you don’t come, it will destroy me.”

Lyall sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands, picking at his cuticles idly. He shook his head.

“I have to think about it. When are you leaving?”

“We’re pulling out at three in the morning. We were going to leave later, but Nathan and Charles want to get back home.”

Lyall kept picking at his fingers. “You mean Charles wants you the hell away from me.”

“Charles is our lawyer, and manager, okay? He has no say in what I do in my life.”

“I don’t know, looks to me like he yanked your leash pretty good,” said Lyall quietly.

“We pay him to yank our leashes, otherwise nothing gets done.”

“He hates me, doesn’t he? Because of all the trouble I’ve caused.”

Pickles raised an eyebrow, lifting his head to look at Lyall. He moved over to him, sitting before him on the floor, resting his chin on his knee as he gazed up at him, placing a hand over his.

“Lyall if Charles hated you, he… would have let you know. Trust me on that one.”

Lyall briefly managed a fleeting smile, then shook his head. “I’m just so fucked up. This is all so much to handle. And I had a huge fight with Erick today because he doesn’t believe we’re not having sex. I even asked him why the hell he cared if you and I were having sex or not, it’s not like Erick ever let me in on what he was feeling. Then you show up and… suddenly I don’t know him anymore. I don’t even know me anymore. And I ask you if you love me and… you can’t give me an answer. No one has any answers. Erick wants me with him, you want me with you, but nobody has any answers.”

Lyall suddenly stood up and grabbed his coat, pulling it on. Pickles sat back and watched with a sick knot in his gut as his reason for living prepared to depart. Lyall glanced at the clock on the bedside table.

“It’s eight right now. If I’m not back by midnight… I’m not coming back.”

Lyall left. Pickles crawled onto the bed and lay down, waiting, smoking, staring at the ceiling. The last thing he remembered was glancing at the clock and noticing it was 10:45

When he opened his eyes, it was 2:38 in the morning, and there was no one else in the room. In the distance, Bob Seger was still singing, someone having left their CD player on repeat.

I awoke last night to the sound of thunder.
How far off? I sat and wondered.
Started humming a song from 1962.
Ain’t it funny how the night moves,
When you just don’t seem to have as much to lose.
Strange how the night moves,
With autumn closing in…

Outside, Pickles could hear the roadies loading the tour bus, and someone banged on the door, letting him know it was time to go. Pickles lit a cigarette, staring at the ceiling. He drew the smoke into his lungs, then slowly exhaled.

“Pathetic,” he whispered. “That’s what you are. Pathetic. Just another loser dressed up as a winner, getting your ass kicked by a kid.”

He finished his cigarette, stubbing it out, then rose to his feet and began slowly packing. He felt numb, distant from his own body, operating on auto pilot. He was leaving, and Lyall wasn’t coming.

Pickles found a half-empty bottle of vodka and finished it off, draining its contents down his throat, and dropping the bottle into the trash along with the remains of his heart and spirit. There was another knock at the door. Pickles snatched the bottle out of the trashcan and threw it at the door, shattering it.

“I’m coming, dammit!”

He finished packing, then went to the door, pulling it open. He stopped as he saw someone there; a small sodden figure in a London Fog trench coat, carrying a gym bag with his few possessions in it.

“I thought it was a myth that rock stars trashed motel rooms.”

Pickles felt his body begin to shake, and his knees nearly quit on him again. He slowly sank to the floor, using the door to steady himself, so he didn’t whack his knees once again. He stared up at Lyall, green eyes large.

“I thought you weren’t coming.”

“I almost didn’t,” said Lyall. He stepped forward and put his arms around Pickles, drawing him close so his head was against his stomach. “I still might not. You still haven’t answered my ques...”

“I love you. And I’ll die without you, and I will take the shit, the jokes, the bad publicity, the dirty names, the public ridicule, I’ll take it all.” He laughed, an edge of hysteria to his voice. “I'd pay any price just to win you, surrender my good life for bad…”

“Like that’s such a great promise,” said a low, coarse voice. “You do that now.”

Pickles opened one eye to glare at Nathan. “Do you mind? We’re trying to have a moment here.”

“Well go have it on the bus. We’re out of here.”

They watched him leave, moving quickly across the gravel parking lot towards the great steaming monstrosity that was the Dethklok tour bus to escape the rain. Pickles turned his attention to Lyall, smiling up at him.

“Ready to go?”

“Yeah,” said Lyall. “I am now.”